


Don't feel nothing, just old scars

by us_against_theworld



Series: She Waits [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dancing, Disguise, F/M, Gen, Head Injury, Hostage Situations, Mentions of Slavery, Period-Typical Sexism, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Singing, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:35:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24236641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/us_against_theworld/pseuds/us_against_theworld
Summary: “What makes you ask?” Charles says evasively.“I did the same thing when I first joined. Not this gang, a different one. Slept off by myself, didn’t speak much, preferred my horse’s company.”He nods thoughtfully. “It’s different, being close to so many people. Before, I could go a month or two without speaking to a person. Now, I wake up and someone’s already yelling about one thing or another. Not to complain, it just…”“Takes some gettin’ used to, I know,” you try to go for a reassuring smile.
Relationships: Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption)/Original Female Character(s), Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption)/Reader
Series: She Waits [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615042
Comments: 12
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> RIP how long has it been? I've got like four separate things going for this series rn but I can't post any of them because goTDANG SPOILERS
> 
> Also side note, when Javier's sentences are in italics, he's speaking Spanish. I know very, very basic Spanish and I ain't even about to play that game with Google Translate
> 
> Lorena is my FAVORITE camp song and [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vz_eKPkt3-o) is my favorite cover of it! Please check out all of Camilla's stuff, I cannot recommend her enough!! I've been using her a lot as inspo for Mag's voice

Your leg severely limited the chores you could do around camp, knocking out anything requiring heavy lifting. The bullet had gone deep into the muscle and simply limping across camp had been a chore the first day or so. To your horror, Susan seemed to revel in the opportunity to finally force more ‘womanly’ skills on you, as she called them. A morning of needlework and darning practice ended in a poorly patched shirt dotted with pinpricks of blood and an unfortunate sock mangled beyond recognition or use. When Miss Grimshaw was across camp scolding some poor soul or breathing down the Reverend’s smelly neck, you would trade off and wash clothes or feed the chickens and let Mary Beth or Tilly try to undo the disaster of your sewing. 

It was day five of your Grimshaw mandated camp confinement and the final one but you were beyond stir crazy. Sure, you’d stayed in the camp for longer stretches before but you’d also been able to pop into town as needed or just tack up Adelaide and steal away for an afternoon ride. Sighing, you down the rest of your coffee and settle in next to Jenny while picking at your breakfast. Susan had removed the stitches late last night just before bed and while you were grateful, the raw edges itched like hell.

“Morning, Mags,” Jenny chirps brightly. How could someone be so perky this early? Sure, the sun was shining bright and warm and the twitter of birds filled the air like Mother Nature’s own wind chimes but it was easier to appreciate all that after a cup or three of coffee.

You grunt wordlessly at her and rub your legs. The damn skirt was another source of irritation too, limiting your motion and lacking pockets, not to mention every single one of the men had been ribbing you endlessly about it.

Karen, Mary Beth, Tilly, and Abigail gradually join you, Jack clutching his mother’s skirt and rubbing his eyes as he shuffles behind her. The girls settle and Jack comes crawling over to your other side, tucking under your arm. He’s a sweet, affectionate boy, even more so in the early morning, like a puppy more than anything with his big brown eyes.

“Hey buddy,” you smile at him. “What you got planned for today?”

“Mama said you was gonna help me with my letters!”

“I am?!” You feign shock. “I don’t remember sayin’ anything of the sort.”

“I said she might, _if_ you asked nicely,” Abigail chides before turning her pretty blue eyes to you. “Would you, Mags? Hosea was gonna but him and Arthur took off for somethin’ last night, said they wouldn’t be back ‘til later.”

Grinning, you put on the best hurt face you can muster.

“You mean you don’t want my help with the sewing? That’s my favorite thing to do ‘round here!”

The girl’s collective groaning sends you all into a fit of giggles that die fast when Grimshaw descends, silver hair smooth and coiffed even at this hour.

“Well I’m glad you all are having such a lovely little morning gossip session,” she sneers. “Now get to work!”

Rolling your eyes, you stand stiffly and retrieve your meager collection of books before returning to the little group and settling next to Jack. He’s very intelligent to be only four, working easily through words and sentences and getting stuck only occasionally on longer, more difficult words. His writing is coming along too, much more legible than it was earlier this year. His letters are wobbly and oddly sized but still readable, which is more than some of the adults in camp can lay claim to. Sometime nearing noon, you stand to stretch and send Jack off for a break, your stomach rumbling and leg aching from staying in one position so long.

“Thank you,” Abigail says gratefully while trying to work some soap into a pair of grass-stained jeans. “You're a better parent than his father."

“That's a low bar,” you mutter, freeing your hair from its tie and letting it flutter around your shoulders. "I think the moron's startin' to come around, though."

Abigail rolls her eyes, a sweaty lock of hair falling into her face.

"I ain't holdin' my breath." 

Smiling sympathetically and letting that particular dog lie, you stroll over to the fire to snag another cup of coffee. Most everyone seems to be sticking near camp today, lazing in the pleasant midday sun like so many lizards on a rock. Bill and Lenny are winding through the trees ringing camp on guard duty. You nod briefly at Uncle as you pour a cup of coffee; smiling softly, you listen to Davey and Mac bickering halfheartedly by Strauss’s wagon, the fidgety German trapped between them and looking very annoyed. That’s the excuse you give yourself for letting Micah sneak up so close, at least.

“Skirts is a good look for you, girlie. Much better than trying to fit into _men's_ clothes.”

Hot irritation settles like a rock in your stomach as you brush back the hair in your face to look at him, the smile on his face vacant and false as a painted doll.

“My pants fit fine, Mister Bell,” you feign as much politeness as you can, which isn’t a lot.

He leers at that, eyes went dark. “Oh that they _do_ , missy. Show off that pretty little ass real nice.”

“Go jump off a cliff and die,” you snarl, all pretense of civility dropped.

“I’m just sayin’,” he holds up his hands in some mock display of innocence. “You been hangin’ around camp this week in those pretty skirts, bein’ all ladylike and domestic. Maybe you finally learned your place.”

It’s like you’ve been doused in ice water, you flinch so hard. It’s a miracle your coffee didn’t spill. Across the fire, Uncle, Swanson, and Sean are an enraptured audience, waiting for the hammer to drop. You take a deep breath before giving Micah your full attention, face carefully blank.

“And just what is my place, Mister Bell?” You ask, voice gone high and soft as you plaster on a smile.

The man swaggers closer, obviously under the impression he’s being propositioned.

“Well,” he chuckles, “ideally on your ba-”

The rest of Micah’s sentence is interrupted by the wet crunch of his nose crumpling under your fist. His startled yelp of pain more than makes up for any discomfort in your knuckles as you watch him stagger sideways to avoid falling ass-first into the fire. Sean’s barking laughter drowns out Micah’s muffled cursing as he holds his bleeding nose and pulls himself upright, pale eyes burning.

“Think I know my place just fine, jackass,” you spit. “You gotta problem with it, go talk to Dutch.”

And with that, you stalk back to the women, who’d fallen quiet when the smack of flesh on flesh echoed across the camp.

“What’d he say?” Tilly asks in a hushed whisper.

“Nothin’ worth repeating,” you say shortly and she blessedly lets it drop.

Jack is still munching away at his lunch over by the chicken coop so you begin printing out some words for him to copy, your mind wandering until it settles on Karen and Jenny whispering off to your side.

“-see how big his hands are? You know what they say about big hands…” Karen waggles her brows suggestively.

“Big gloves?” You butt in and scoot closer, curiosity piqued. “Who we talkin’ about?”

“That Charles feller,” Jenny stage whispers. “He’s _huge_. Gives a girl all kinds a thoughts.” 

Neither of them needs to know you’re internally agreeing with them even as you roll your eyes.

“I saw him change his shirt the other day and lemme tell you,” Karen winks and fans herself. 

"Creepy, Karen. Y'know, there's more to life than men."

"Oh, stuff it, Mags," Jenny laughs. "Just because you're more interested in acting like a man than gettin' one don't mean the rest of us are." 

"She _could_ get one if she wanted to though," Mary Beth says breezily as she scoots closer. "A well dressed, dark-haired one."

“For the last time, Javier and I are not a thing, now or ever.” Even as it’s being said you can tell it’s falling on deaf ears.

"Come on," Mary Beth whines, "he's all about you, Mags. You ain't thought about it, not once?"

“ _No_.”

"But you two are always going off on jobs together, sittin' together, laughing and-"

"Yeah, that's because we're friends and we make a good team," you bite back. "You and Tilly are always hangin' out and makin' fun of Grimshaw, are you guys together?"

The pair in question giggles as you sigh, too tired to let your irritation build to proper annoyance. “I got my reasons and secrets, same as anyone else, can we just leave it at that?”

“Is one of ‘em that you’re secretly boring?” Karen scoffs. “You keep the mysterious aura because you don’t ever do anything fun, right?”

“Karen!” Mary Beth scolds.

“I’m a wanted criminal and break the law all the time!” You laugh. “What more do you want?”

“Oh, not that. I’m talkin’ about _real_ fun; gettin’ drunker than a skunk and stealing a horse, one night stands, building too big a bonfire and gettin’ your eyebrows singed off, that kinda fun.” She points an accusing finger at you. “I’ve never even seen you get drunk!”

Your eyes roll so hard they might just fall out your head. “Just because you ain’t seen somethin’ don’t mean it ain’t happened.”

“Prove it. Tell us one fun, unexpected thing you’ve done.”

When all the other girls nod encouragingly, you sigh in defeat. Normally, ignoring Karen’s egging wouldn’t be a problem but you’d been subjected to it all week, stuck in camp, and you finally just give in to it.

“I... have a tattoo.” A half-beat of stunned silence before-

“No way.”

“Where?”

“You WHAT?” Karen screeches. “Show us!”

She gets Jenny, Tilly, and Mary-Beth in on it, slapping the ground and chanting ‘ _show us! show us!_ ’ until you relent.

Sighing, you rise to your knees and glance covertly around camp to make sure no one accidentally gets an eyeful. You pull up the front of your shirt to just under your breast, keeping your back and left side covered. Neat, thick black lines loop elegantly over the middle of your ribs to form a simple outline filled with black and white ink.

Karen’s head is tilted at what has to be an uncomfortable angle inspecting it.

“Uh, what am I lookin’ at?” she finally asks.

“It’s a bird!” Mary Beth says.

“What’s it for?” Tilly pipes up.

“Uh- well. A gang. That I used to be part of,” you force out, tugging your chemise back down and checking again to make sure no one is watching.

“Damn,” Karen says lowly. “Did the whole gang have that?”

You nod wordlessly, face carefully blank.

Mary Beth frowns suddenly. “What happened to them?”

“They’re dead.”

The bluntness of your answer stops any further questions and an awkward silence persists for an uncomfortable few seconds.

“That’s not a requirement or anything, is it?” Jenny suddenly asks. “To be part of a gang? I ain’t gettin’ no tattoos.”

Everyone starts laughing at that, even Abigail.

“No, Jenny,” you reassure her with a smile.

“Ok, but what _would_ our gang tattoo be?” Tilly asks, deathly serious.

You snort as an image comes to mind. “One of those Cuban cigars Dutch always has."

“A mustache!”

“Just the word ‘Faith’.”

“A gold bar!”

“Some stupid Miller quote, I bet.”

Everyone bursts into laughter at the last one thought up by Abigail.

“Ok, ok,” Tilly chuckles breathlessly. “I think that’s our winner.”

Before Karen can pick up her interrogation again, Jack appears like he was summoned to sit in front of you, blessedly ending that particular line of questioning as the pair of you begin working on a blank sheet of paper.

The sun has all but sunk beneath the horizon when John and Javier return, the only remnants a few fingers of deep purple and orange scratching into the black of the night. The only reason you take notice is because of the snorting, stomping Thoroughbred Javier is leading to the hitching posts, dark blood bay coat flashing in the lantern light; he looks exhausted and downright irate as he dismounts and begins trying to move the horse over to an isolated post. You’re already on the way over when the horse rears and kicks out, narrowly missing Javier’s head. Breaking into a run, you duck behind him and grab the lead to help him keep hold of the wide eyed mare. Once her fussing calms to huffing and stomping, you run a hand down her neck and scratch lightly in an attempt at soothing her.

“ _Fucking pain in my ass_ ,” he hisses before turning to you with a sigh. 

“You tradin’ in Boaz?” His genuinely offended look makes you laugh.

“Not for this diabla. No, we went to rob this ranch about half-day south of here, turned out to be some bastard using a stud farm as a front for slave trading,” Javier spit the last bit. “We went in pretending to be interested in one of his studs and he asked John how much he’d sell me for.”

“Jesus fuck, Javier,” you breathe. “You shoot him right then or did you wait?”

His wicked smile was answer enough. “Oh, I blew his brains out, nena. He had twelve people chained in his basement. Twelve! Two of them couldn’t have been older than Jack.”

“What happened to them?” You were still scratching the mare’s neck idly, reluctant to stop since she was settling.

“They ran,” he shrugs. “Most took a horse and split and I wasn’t about to tell them no; we still got an excellent take from the house. This was the only horse left and I was gonna let her go but John said to bring her, said we were short on horses. She put up a hell of a fight the whole way here.”

“She’s beautiful,” you whisper as you stroke down her neck.

You lean over to snag a few oatcakes from one of the feed barrels and offer them to the mare, who lips at them eagerly before licking your hand for crumbs. Grinning, you grab a few more and let her munch on them. She lets out a deep snort as she finishes, her head finally coming down and eyes relaxing a bit.

“She likes you,” Javier notes from where he’s brushing down Boaz.

“Maybe she prefers women?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “John should be back over in a minute, he was talking to Dutch. Maybe you can keep her. See you in there,” he calls while hoisting his tack over one shoulder and striding off.

Sure enough, the muffled clink of spurs announces John’s arrival a few minutes later as he stops next to Old Boy, eyeing the mare warily.

“That beast let you touch her?” He sounds surprised, scoffing when you just shrug. “Damn thing barely let me put a halter on. Javier knew you’d like her.”

“What?”

“I wanted to leave it but he said you didn’t have a horse and he knew you liked the hot-blooded ones.”

A blush floods your face as you tickle the mare’s muzzle with your fingertips, smiling softly.

“I’ll have to thank him,” you mutter into her soft coat. John’s scratchy laugh makes you turn to find him smiling nastily.

“I’m sure you can think of a few ways to do that.”

“Piss off,” you call to his retreating back. He throws up a middle finger before turning into his tent and leaving you with your new horse.

“I - I guess you’re mine now, pretty girl,” you laugh softly. “Come on, let’s go over here.” 

Beaming like a kid with a new toy, you lead the mare into the makeshift rope paddock where all the horses stay when not tacked and ready to go. Brown Jack whickers softly as you enter before returning to his flake of hay. After unclipping her halter, you watch as the mare trots curiously into the midst of the herd before reaching down to tear at the rich green grass and snort contentedly. The Count comes nosing not a minute later, ears pricked and stance curious as he gives her a thorough once over. You laugh when she snaps at him, teeth barely missing his pristine coat. Snorting deeply, the Arabian canters smartly to the other side of the paddock and bullies Maggie away from a pile of bulrush someone has left.

“You gotta at least be polite to him,” you chide her gently while strolling across the paddock to begin working a comb through her thick mane. “Suppose I need to come up with a name for you.”

Quiet settles as you concentrate on your task, the only noise is the gentle burring of the animals around you and the soft humming of a song you can’t quite name at the moment. The mare seems at ease now, tail swishing calmly at flies. She seems receptive to your touch, indifferent to the sweep of a brush or even having her hooves lifted to pick them clean. Maybe she actually just didn’t like men?

“I don’t really blame you, sweetheart,” you mutter to her when hot breath and a hard pinch against the small of your back startles you into whipping around. “Hey!”

It’s Sean’s horse, Ennis, his head lowered as he nuzzles at the small pouch tied to your belt. Smiling, you run a hand through his forelock to scratch behind his ears.

“Just like your master, huh? Did you come to say hi or see if I had snacks for you?” The way he noses harder at the little pouch answers. “Ok, ok! Lemme see what I got.”

Some digging around produces a few stuck together peppermints and an apple. Giving one of the mints to your mare, you pull out a small dagger and begin slicing off sections to feed Ennis, who crunches happily and slobbers all over your hand while chewing. When you tuck the remaining half back into your bag and let the gelding lick your empty palms, he snorts and turns his rump to you before plodding back to the others, giving Silver Dollar a playful nip in passing.

“Boys,” you whisper conspiratorially to your mare. “Oh, I know! What about Garnet?”

The swish of her tail is the only answer given but you take it for what it is.

“Hello, Garnet. It’s nice to meet you,” you giggle to yourself.

It’s full dark by the time you deem Garnet neat and groomed, her hair tangle-free and coat spotless in the light of the scout fire. You hadn’t come into the paddock much lately and didn’t realize how much you’d missed it. With a final pat to Garnet’s flank, you begin making a loop around the pasture to check on all the horses before turning in. When you get to the farthest corner you spot the newest addition, her speckled rump standing out among the other solid hides surrounding her.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you whisper. Taima lifts her head with a burr and walks to you lazily. “Suppose I never thanked you for luggin’ my ass back that night, huh?”

The mare sniffs deeply at your bag in answer and begins lipping at the poorly tied opening with interest.

“Consider this your ‘thank you’, then,” you laugh and draw out the remaining apple half. A mighty shake of her head as she chews gives off a strange clacking sound. Frowning, you peer around the horse’s head to see the source of the noise.

Taima’s mane is littered with delicate, neat little braids and a handful of colorful beads made out of wood and bone that, upon closer inspection, have tiny figures of birds and animals carved into them. A pair of snowy white feathers drape down her neck, woven into another braid to stand out sharply against the black of her coat.

“Wow,” you breathe while inspecting a bead with a moon and stars carved into it.

“You’ve made a friend; apples are her favorite.”

Startled, you whip around to find Charles not five feet away.

“Fuckin' _shit_ , you scared me!” You exclaim. “How d’you do that?”

“Do what?”

“That,” you wave your arms at him, “movin’ and not makin’ a sound thing. Feller your size should make some kinda noise."

"My size?" He asks, quirking a brow innocently.

"You know. You - you're a big guy." As it's coming out your face is flushing but still, your mouth opens like the idiot you are. 

"Am I?"

"Well yeah, I guess. I mean, surely-"

You cut yourself off when you notice the barely-there smile playing across Charles' mouth and narrow your eyes at him. "Oh, you a funny man, too?"

“Not really,” Charles answers lightly, smiling fondly when Taima headbutts you gently in the shoulder, impatient for the rest of her apple.

"Ok, ok, sorry honey," you coo while giving her ear a soft scratch, laughing quietly when she buries her forehead into your chest.

"Now she really likes you."

“Well, I reckon she earned a little spoilin' after cartin’ my ass back here.” He hums wordlessly. “Where'd you get those beads?” 

“I made them.”

You turn back around to make sure he’s not pulling your leg. “You _made_ these? They’re beautiful.”

“I like to keep busy,” Charles shrugs dismissively while running a hand through his hair. “Keeps my hands steady.”

He’s shuffling his feet now, fingers drumming against his pants legs. You feed Taima the last slice of apple. When it’s all gone she puffs at your palms and goes back to tearing at the tender grass.

“You…. you ain’t used to being around a group like this, are you?” You nod to the lone bedroll unfolded by the scout fire not a stone’s throw away.

“What makes you ask?” Charles says evasively. 

“I did the same thing when I first joined. Not this gang, a different one. Slept off by myself, didn’t speak much, preferred my horse’s company.”

He nods thoughtfully. “It’s different, being close to so many people. Before, I could go a month or two without speaking to a person. Now, I wake up and someone’s already yelling about one thing or another. Not to complain, it just…”

“Takes some gettin’ used to, I know,” you try to go for a reassuring smile.

The crackle of firewood and drunken hollering in the distance moves to the forefront as conversation falls. Not that you mind; speaking for the sake of making noise has never been your forte.

“Are we celebrating something tonight?” Charles nods in the direction of some truly awful singing.

“John an’ Javier had a pretty good take from their job and Dutch likes to keep spirits up, encourages us to let loose and get hammered every so often. Says it keeps tension low. It's been a while since the last party, maybe a month or so before you joined?" You try to recall. "So enjoy the show, just stay away from Bill. He's a mean ass drunk." 

"I’ve been trying to do that anyway," he mutters, earning a bark of laughter from you.

“Well, guess I’ll leave you to it, Mister Smith,” you say, giving Taima a final ear scratch before turning away.

"Charles.”

Frowning, you turn back around. “Huh?”

“Call me Charles,” he says softly. “Mister Smith is very…. formal. Not much point in formalities when I’ve had your blood on my hands.”

“Fair point. In that case, good night, Charles,” you smile with the tip of your imaginary hat. You return to camp, pleased that you seemed to be getting the man to open up. He’s very quiet, speaking only when spoken to and even then using as few words as possible.

Humming a soft, tuneless song, you arrive back in the cluster of tents to find what is apparently a full-blown party. Uncle is the first to stumble by you, a half drained whiskey bottle in one hand and a stick, for some reason, in the other.

"Miss Magpie!" he nearly yells, round cheeks bright red. "Welcome to the party! Don't you look the part of a lady tonight! You should dress like one more often."

"Uncle! I’d say you look the part of a drunken freeloader but that’s just your normal look."

The man begins spouting off the usual nonsense about how he’s more an intellectual than a fighter, so you turn and leave him talking to the empty air, snatching a whiskey bottle from a crate and taking a seat next to Lenny. Everyone is cheering as Sean and Mac wrestle each other to the ground across the main fire, their liquor-soaked limbs making their movements sloppy and just a touch uncoordinated.

“Who you got money on?” you ask Lenny.

“A dollar on Mac,” he answers without taking his eyes off the pair.

“I’ll match that. Sean’s a wiry little spit but he’s slippery as a damn eel.”

“C’mon, Mackey!” Davey hollers from John’s side, sweaty blonde locks plastered to his forehead.

It doesn’t take long for Mac to emerge victorious after trapping Sean in a solid headlock, the redhead too drunk to do much besides flap his arms and hurl insults at him. Sighing, you dig out a dollar and hand it over to a grinning Lenny.

“Yeah yeah, you got lucky one time, Summers. Don’t let it get to your head,” you snark playfully.

“Didn’t take you for a sore loser, Mags. Thanks for the dollar,” he winks before heading to get another beer.

And with that Sean comes stumbling over as the crowd disperses, a fresh drink already in his hand and a purple mark blooming on his temple.

"There she is! The mystery woman herself, finally revealin' her secrets!" He says too loudly for being right next to you.

"Dunno what you mean, MacGuire," you say coolly while taking a sip of your drink.

Sean scoffs and wobbles dangerously before righting himself to perch next to you. He reeks of liquor and sweat, though at this point he’s probably actually sweating liquor. "Ah, come off it! Karen already told me. Tell ya what," he hiccups. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"Everyone in the free world has seen yours."

"Maybe but I'm sure ya wouldn't mind another peek," Sean snickers. "Tattoos are sexy."

Your frown at him to try and hide a laugh. “Not when it’s a clover on your ass cheek.”

“So you _were_ lookin’ at my arse!” He grins.

“Sure,” you say lightly. “Kinda hard not to look at somethin’ so pale it practically shines in the dark.”

Sean laughs like you just told the best joke in the world, clapping your shoulder with his free hand. “C’mon, show me! Is yours on your arse too? If it is, mum’s the word, I won’t tell a soul!”

That’s definitely a lie but you stand and turn your other side to Sean. The sooner you comply the sooner it's over; the man is worse than a bloodhound on a scent sometimes. Carefully, you pull your shirt up to under your breast again and let Sean peek. The redhead is squinting heavily at the mark, eyes going in and out of focus as he leans close enough you can feel a puff of breath on your side.

"What, uh, what am I lookin' at?"

God, he and Karen are perfect for each other.

"It's a bird, you drunk idiot. You done lookin'?" You shove his head away and drop your shirt before taking another drink.

“No! What’s it for? Ya really like birds or somethin’? Is it a theme?” he hiccups.

“It's to make you ask questions,” you deadpan. “Now go find someone else to bother.”

You leave Sean behind at the fire, ignoring the questions he slurs at your retreating back. For a while, you drift between groups, not really belonging to any for more than ten minutes at a time. Tilly, Hosea, Grimshaw, and Pearson playing poker was about as riveting as spectating a card game could be but it did prove to be funny, watching Hosea clean house with his eyes practically closed. Chuckling at the older man’s smirking face, you drain your second whiskey and are pointedly plied with another by Karen before making your way to watch Davey and Bill play Five Finger Fillet; you wince sympathetically when Davey slides the knife neatly into the meat of his pointer finger. For a while you just pace, circling the camp nursing a whiskey bottle and watching. It’s a pleasant night, the air cool enough to keep the extra fabric of your skirt from feeling so suffocating but not chilly enough to warrant a coat.

You finally take a break from walking to sit by the scout fire, where Javier, Tilly, Jenny, Mary Beth, and Karen are huddled together, chatting idly while Javier strums his guitar.

"Shoulda known I'd find you surrounded by all the ladies," you tease Javier as you sit by him.

"It's a gift," he winks. "But now that you're here, it's a party. Would you sing for m- us?"

"You can sing?" Jenny asks from Mary Beth's side.

"I mean, anyone can sing…."

"No, no, don't let her pull that crap on you," Karen yells drunkenly from the other end of the log you're perched on. "She's a-mazing."

Your face has to be glowing with how red it feels suddenly. It's not that you can't sing; you're actually very good. It's being the center of attention that's the problem.

"I dunno, Javi-"

"For me, Mags? Please?" He pulls out those fucking soft, pleading eyes and your resistance crumbles like a tower of cards.

"Fine, fine!" You grumble and drain the rest of your bottle. "What d'you hounds wanna hear?

"Rye Whiskey!" From Tilly.

"Oh, Shanadore!" From Mary Beth.

"Ain't nobody here can play the harmonica," Tilly laments.

"Lorena!"

"Lorena! I actually like that one," you snag Karen's suggestion. "Mister Escuella, would you be so kind?"

"Of course, cariño," and with a flutter of fingers, soft chords float through the air. You clear your throat and sit a little straighter, staring resolutely into the flames to avoid eye contact with anyone.

_Oh, the years creep slowly by, Lorena,_

_The snow is on the ground again._

It's a sad, powerful song that you can play with, injecting emotion into the volume and tone of your voice. You _like_ singing, an audience just makes you nervous. Karen lets out a woop and starts humming softly beneath you while swaying back and forth dangerously. You look up to find Hosea, Lenny, and Charles have joined the group, Hosea tapping his knee along to the tune and smiling softly.

_A hundred months have passed, Lorena,_

_Since last I held that hand in mine,_

_And felt the pulse beat fast, Lorena,_

_Though mine beat faster far than thine._

You glance over to find Javier watching you intently, eyes alight with emotions that make your gut twist anxiously. Despite what you told Arthur, you know how Javier feels, know all the names he calls you in his native tongue are meant for a lover. You aren’t stupid or oblivious, you just don't feel the same. He's your friend, arguably your best friend, and you don't want more from him. The prospect of bringing it up, turning him down and possibly ruining your friendship, is just intimidating and terrifying.

_'Tis dust to dust beneath the sod;_

_But there, up there, 'tis heart to heart._

When the last straining note fades out of existence, applause erupts from your little gathering. Blushing fiercely, you duck to hide behind your hair.

"You have a gift."

Your eyes shoot back up and it's Charles who spoke, face open and easy, like he's speaking fact.

"I wouldn't go that far…"

"No, he's right," Hosea tuts. "It's a delight when you sing, my dear. I wish you would do it more." Your face somehow gets even hotter; maybe you'll just burst into flame in a second.

"Did someone teach you?" Jenny asks.

The bashful smile slides off your face like a candle being snuffed out.

"Uh - no, I mean, yes but - I gotta go, I think John wanted to talk to me earlier."

And you dart off, nearly knocking poor Javier's guitar out of his hands in your haste. You go back to pacing the outskirts of camp but now it's full of nervous energy, heart in your throat as you try to will your nerves into calming.

 _It was a simple question,_ **_why_ ** _do you always do this?_

You stop at a rotting tree stump and sit for a minute, collecting your thoughts and sipping on a new bottle while listening to the hooting of an owl perched up high. You try to focus on its throaty call and not voices and a time long dead, of guilt and pain and anger usually kept locked tight in a box buried deep. Breathe, _breathe_. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. In, hold…….

Eventually, you force yourself back into camp and sit on an empty crate beside Dutch’s tent, your fourth half drained whiskey clutched in your hand while watching Dutch and Molly swaying softly to the gramophone. It’s actually playing something nice for once and not that god awful opera shit Dutch seems to like. Soon Karen and Sean join them as well as a blushing Jenny clumsily led by Lenny. Smiling and winking at Jenny, you give Lenny a thumbs up when he spins her. You're too busy grinning at Karen and Jenny in turn to notice a snake slinking up to you.

“Ya wanna dance, girlie?” Micah asks sticky sweet. It pleases you to no end that his eyes are ringed heavily in various shades of purple and blue bruising.

“Twice in one day? You must be gettin’ desperate. All the workin’ girls in town finally sick o’ you?”

Micah cocks his head, pale blue eyes narrowed on you. “Ya just looked lonely over here, thought I’d ask. Saw you flashin' your tits to the Mick earlier. How’d you feel about a private show?”

“Sure," you stand and round on him, enough liquor in you to let your temper really flare. "How about I give you a private, up close showin' of my shotgun?"

Micah sneers, yellowed teeth flashing dangerously as he steps into your space.

"I could show you _my_ shotgun instead?" He snickers, innuendo sticking despite how stupid it was.

"Micah, I just want you to know: if I had a choice between fuckin' you an' gettin' shot, I'd gladly deepthroat a Gatling gun and pull the trigger myself."

Behind you, Bill chokes on his drink and bursts into laughter. Micah smiles coldly, eyes flat and vacant like a snake.

"Good to know you'd suck on somethin', you frigid little bitch."

Fists curling, the last of your restraint flies out the window and you raise your arm, already looking forward to beating the shit out of this spineless, disgusting, simpering little-

Arms loops around your waist before the hit lands though, dragging you back and pulling Micah's smug bastard face just out of reach. Spinning around in the grip, you snarl wildly at your captor and shove at them. God, you really must've drunk more than you thought; it takes a solid five seconds for the world to stop spinning so you can see who stepped in the middle of your business.

"Javier?! I don't need your fuckin' help!"

"You're drunk, Urraca. Let's not start any fights tonight, hm?" He placates but doesn't release you.

"I ain't drunk. And I ain't startin' shit, I'm beatin' his ass. Lemme go!" You snarl. 

Javier just smiles at you and curls his other arm around your waist. “He’s already moved onto his next victim, corazón.” He spins so that you’re facing the way you came and can see Micah harassing poor Bill. “Dance with me instead.”

Spinning makes you a touch unsteady and your hands fly up to grip Javier’s shoulders, leaning your forehead against his chest to fight off the dizziness. The longer you stay there, the better dancing with him sounds. He’s warm and solid and steady pressed against you, arms a comforting weight around your middle. Letting the last of your irritation go with an exhale, you bury your nose into his neck to block out the firelight and bring your hands up to card through his hair, pulling it loose in the process. A tiny, niggling voice in the back of your brain says this is a really bad idea but the breath of Javier's soft laugh tickles your ear and the voice fades into oblivion.

"S'funny?" You slur against his throat before muttering, "Your hair's so _soft_."

"You. I don't think I remember the last time you drank much more than a bottle of beer, do you?"

Thinking is hard when it feels like you're floating through molasses. Sifting through memories is even harder.

"I……. think," you drawl out after several seconds or maybe minutes? "It was after that bank heist in - in Colorado. They had that real fancy liquor store next door, 'member?"

"That was almost two years ago, bonita," Javier huffs incredulously.

"Yep," you laugh, popping the 'p' in his ear obnoxiously. When you lean back to look him in the eye you start giggling wildly, to Javier’s confusion.

“What are you laughing at?”

“You- your-,” you dissolve into laughter and instead reach up to run your fingers through his loose hair, which is tangled and knotted around his head like he’d gone ten rounds with a tornado from where you'd been playing with it.

“Okay,” Javier laughs and takes both your hands in his to lead you away from Dutch’s tent. It was just Arthur and Tilly now anyways, most everyone else across camp watching what seems to be Sean dodging rocks being chucked at him by John and Davey. “I think you need a time out. Come on."

"'Time out'. I ain't five," you protest but trail after him nonetheless when a lone figure at a table catches your eye. "Oh, there's Mary Beth! She's got nice hair too, Javi. Hi!" 

Mary Beth returns your overzealous wave with her own, watching bemusedly as Javier slowly carts you out of camp. There's a tree not far away that you both like to sit under, branches thick and low enough that you can hide away from the world. 

“You’re the best, y’know?” You mutter when you both plop down against the trunk.

“I do, but it’s nice to know I’m appreciated,” he says softly. “Relax, Urraca."

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you whisper as darkness rushes up suddenly to drag you into peaceful oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I always enjoy exploring the job aspect of being in the gang and loooove to play with that because I would be so god-awful at the acting bit???  
> Also since apparently Mags has turned into an OC, I'mma spill about her some. Next chapter is gonna be delving into her backstory. But she's very much a woman in a man's world and is hellbent on proving that it's a woman's world too. Now I know canon doesn't outright present their sexism front and center with the classic 'girls can't do this or that' blah blah but it is there. It's how like NONE of the women go on jobs except for like two? And even then they get stuck with the 'helpless lady' act? Even though Arthur's always bragging about how good of thieves they are? Or the scene at Shady Belle when Sadie asks when Dutch is gonna let her go robbing and instead of giving her an actual answer she gets some placating ~flattery~ bullshit? So after the guys get stuck on Guarma, Sadie stops asking and just does her own thing. Permission and forgiveness and all that. Anyways *cough* that's my rant for the day, enjoy the chapter!

The dress seemed to mock you, held between Hosea's hands like a gift when in fact it was a silk and lace covered trap.

"Hosea, please," you beg. "Why can't one of the other girls do it? They actually like playin' dress up!"

The older man smiles at you, brows crinkled in his signature reassuring look. Right now it's just making you glare harder at him.

"Because Arthur needs a wife that actually looks old enough for him and not a child barely out of school."

"I ain't that much older than the rest of 'em!"

"No but you look a bit older, a bit more mature," he says like he's complimenting you.

"Wow, you really know how to flatter a girl. And you know how I feel about-," you stammer and lean in closer to hiss, " _playin' wife._ I'll play any whore or drunk you want but I don't like damsel or wife."

Hosea pats you on the back lightly. "I know, which is why I put you with Arthur; I know you're comfortable with him. And if it makes you feel any better, Arthur has to put on a proper suit. He looks like a monkey playin' at being a man."

You frown and snatch the offending garment from him. "It don't. And he looks like that anyway. But I'll put the damned thing on," you grumble. "Better be a good haul for all this."

"Have I ever led you astray?" He smiles widely while handing over the dress.

"I ain't got near the time to begin answerin' that question and you know it." Hosea laughs lightly and gestures out the entrance of his tent.

"Go on and get changed. Tilly's waiting in Dutch’s tent for you."

As it turns out, Tilly _and_ Mary Beth are waiting, armed to the teeth with powder, rouge, ribbons, and an ungodly amount of hairpins. They largely ignore your protests, twisting and turning and positioning you like their own life-size doll. Mary Beth cakes on face powder, grumbling about your sunburnt nose, while Tilly weaves your hair into what feels like an intricate updo. The corset is the worst though, tightening just a hair below hurting and clinging to you uncomfortably. How did people deal with their clothes being so constricting and form fitting all the time?

“Shit, Mary Beth, what’d I do to you?”

Mary Beth rolls her eyes as she ties off the corset and tucks away the laces. “Mags, I’ve seen you get broken fingers set and not make a sound. Don’t be a baby.”

“Least the fingers were over in two seconds,” you pout.

The dress itself is heavy and stuffy but even you can admit it’s beautiful. Thick, lacy white ruffles circle your throat and spill like seafoam over a light blue bodice that deepens to a midnight blue towards the hem. Full-length sleeves cling to your arms and end with a fringe of the same ruffles that tickle your wrists whenever you move. Tilly hands you a pair of silky cream gloves to hide the scars on your hands and your bitten nails. The corset exaggerates your hips and waist, making you look almost dainty in the dusty mirror. Your hair, usually flying loose or in a ponytail, is twisted into an elegant updo, leaving your neck bare. Your skin is smooth and even with a hint of rosy red rouge on your cheeks. You were worried about looking like a clown but you actually looked, well, kinda nice.

“You guys, this - this is -,” you stammer and run a finger gently across your flushed cheek.

“Don't be messing up my hard work” Tilly chides and slaps your hand away. “Just have a good time for us, huh?”

Your reflection smiles in the mirror, lips lined with Tilly's borrowed lipstick. “Sure, up until the shootin’ starts. Maybe I’ll steal you guys somethin’ pretty too. Now, shall we go see if my darling husband is ready?”

Arthur is handsome in that rugged, rough and tumble way on any given day, not that you'd ever say that to his face. In a fitted, sharp cut suit, with his face clean-shaven and hair neatly trimmed and slicked back with pomade? He’d make any girl swoon.

“Well, ain’t I just the luckiest?” You put on a breathy, fluttery voice and fan yourself as Arthur emerges from John’s tent. “Didn’t even know I was married ‘til an hour ago and I got myself a big handsome hunk of a husband.”

The way Arthur’s cheeks pink delight you to no end. “Shut up.”

“Is that any way to talk to your wife, Mister Whitmire?” Hosea chastises, grinning widely and handing the pair of you a matching set of rings. He always seems to enjoy shoving Arthur into costumes the most, for some reason. “Everyone going on the train job, get over here!”

Micah, Javier, Davey, Mac, and Bill all gather where you, Arthur, and Hosea are waiting at the hitching posts, decked out in their respective gear and weapons. Wolf whistles and catcalls go out to the pair of you and your eyes roll.

“All right, all right, let’s go over the plan one more time,” Hosea calls and claps his hands. “Arthur and Mags will go to the train station as Jacob and Geraldine Whitmire, joining the shareholders of Standard Oil Trust and their wives out on a five-hour pleasure ride, paid for by the company. Somewhere on that train, there is a safe containing bonds and a whole lot of cash for some poker games they’ll have going on, which is where our lovely couple come in. Their objective is to locate the safe. Once that's done, Geraldine here will go to the end of the train and flag us down with this.”

Hosea tosses you a pocket mirror that you tuck securely into the folds of your skirt as he continues pacing, arms waving like a conductor leading his symphony. 

“Now there’s a deserted stretch of land I’d prefer to stop the train at to avoid attracting the law, so once there we’ll ideally be gone within twenty minutes. When you’re on, make finding Arthur and Mags your top priority; they’ll be leading us to the safe. But this is a passenger train after all, full of very wealthy shareholders, so take as much as you can. Now, these two won’t have the benefit of masks, so don’t act familiar with them at all. Rough ‘em up a little, shove ‘em some; Arthur, Mags, pretend to put up a bit of a fight. When we leave, whoever has them is gonna tie ‘em up and take ‘em hostage.” Stopping his pacing in front of Silver Dollar, Hosea levels every gathered member with a hard look and emphasizes his next words clearly. “This is a situation where casualties can and should be kept to a minimum. Anyone not clear on something?”

“Well, what if they get made before the train stops?” Bill points to you and Arthur.

“This party is no weapons allowed, save for security, so Geraldine has a surprise or two up her skirt.”

Grinning, you lift your heavy dress to mid-calf. Strapped to one ankle is your hunting knife, on your other is a Remington Model 95, small enough to carry and still pack a punch. More wolf whistles go up from Bill and the Callander boys.

“I got two .38 Single Actions somewhere else but that’s a special surprise for dear Jacob,” you coo and hip check Arthur, snickering when he elbows you in the side. “Where’s John? Thought he was comin’ too.”

Hosea waves a hand. “I sent him ahead to see about sneaking on board as a guard. If he can’t manage it without blowin’ our cover then he’ll just join us at the meetup. Everyone mount up!”

“So we’re on our own,” Arthur mutters in your ear as everyone begins breaking to their horses, wincing when you smack him open-handed on the chest. “S’the truth! And don’t mess up my bowtie, you know how long it took to do?”

“Awh, you poor thing! You wanna trade? I’ll wear the bowtie if you’ll take this stupid corset.”

“No. No, no, no,” Arthur says as the pair of you walk to Boadicea. “Once was more than enough for me.”

Wait, did he just...?

“Um, ok, back up.” Arthur lifts you up behind the saddle and fixes your ridiculous skirt before mounting up in front of you. “Why and when have _you_ worn a corset befo-”

“Mister and Missus Whitmire!” Hosea calls. “Get going and good luck.”

With a nod to Hosea and a wave to a few odd well-wishers, Arthur spurs Boadicea into a gentle lope, leaving behind the rest of the gang in a cloud of dust.

“Ok, so about you and corsets?”

“We’re on a job, Mags. Focus,” Arthur chastises, but you can see a grin creasing his cheeks where you’re clinging to him to keep from slipping off. Stupid skirt making you ride stupid side-saddle.

“I am. Don’t think I’m gonna forget about it though.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

For the rest of the ride you make small talk about your cover; how you met, how long you’d been married, where you live, dumb nicknames you had for each other, signals, and code words to help each other out of a tight spot if needed. 

By the time Boadicea trots up to the train station you feel marginally more prepared, if still uncomfortable, and irritated about the dress. There are dozens of other horses and two-seater carriages already hitched up by the time you two squeeze into one of the last open spots, fitting between a gorgeous chestnut Arabian and an older couple slowly descending from their carriage. Arthur dismounts and sets you down gently by the hips, brushing your hair back and dropping a dry kiss to your cheek.

“Sorry, I know you don’t like this part,” he whispers into your ear before pulling back.

You plaster on what you hope is a sweet smile and go to straighten Arthur’s bowtie.

“If I have to do this, I’m glad it’s with you,” you breathe. “Let’s go rob these idiots.”

He gives you a genuine, crooked smile before offering his elbow and escorting you across the platform. You do cling to him now, trying to go for the shy, demure wife to the tall, imposing businessman. Arthur hands your invitation, courtesy of Hosea, to the doorman, who waves you past with barely a glance. You breathe a little easier once you’re inside and begin scanning the car, looking for any scrap of information. Round tables covered in fine white linen take up most of the room in the car. Nearly everyone is here already, crowding the train full of fancy suits, full dresses, expensive perfume, and buzzing chatter. A waiter walks by with flutes of champagne and Arthur snatches two quickly.

“Thank you, Jacob,” you smile up at him and take a big swallow. 

It takes a lot of will to swallow the champagne with a mostly straight face but you do somehow. Arthur chuckles at you, sipping lightly at his own glass.

“ _That’s_ champagne?” You whisper. “It’s awful.”

“It ain’t so bad.”

“It tastes like bubbly dirt.”

Arthur laughs quietly into his glass again. “I’m sure they got some expensive whiskey or bourbon for a refined lady such as yourself on here, darlin’.”

“They better.”

The pair of you walk the cars for a bit, trying to get a layout of the place and keeping an eye out for John. Suddenly, a bell chimes and an usher is waving everyone to the dining cars as the train lurches into motion. Arthur pulls out a chair for you at a random table before taking a seat at your side. It seats six and there’s already one couple sitting across from you, the woman eyeing you delightedly.

“Hello there!” The man says, blonde hair slicked back off his chubby pink face. “I’m Warren Matterson, this is my wife Alice. Forgive me but I don’t believe I recognize you?” Warren’s brow creases with just the right amount of polite confusion that you could gag.

“Oh, forgive me,” Arthur says smoothly and takes your hand. “I’m Jacob Whitmire and this is my darling Geraldine.”

Warren’s eyes get big all of a sudden. “Whitmire? Are you perhaps kin to Mister Ashford Whitmire?”

“He was my grandfather,” Arthur nods solemnly. Huh. Hosea hadn’t filled you in on this part of the job.

“We were all very sorry to hear of his passing,” Alice chimed in, fiery red curls spilling out across her pale shoulder as she lays a hand on her husband’s arm.

“Well, that’s kind of you. He - he passed peacefully if it brings any comfort to know.”

Arthur may loathe the dress up and costumes and aliases but goddamn was he a good actor. His voice caught in just the right way to have poor Alice literally clutching her chest and nodding sympathetically.

A waiter comes by to collect drink orders as another couple joins the table and greet Warren and Alice warmly.

“Bourbon, please. For me and my husband,” you whisper to the man, who nods and whizzes off to retrieve your drinks.

“Geraldine!”

It’s then you notice that Alice has swapped seats with Warren so that her new friend is between the two of you and Arthur is engrossed in conversation with their husbands. The waiter pops back up blessedly with your bourbon and you take a drink before twisting in your chair to smile at the new woman.

“Marcie, this is Geraldine. Her husband is Ashford’s grandson.”

Marcie’s kohl-lined blue eyes widen consolingly as she places a gloved hand on top of yours and pats softly. A small baby is cradled in her other arm, eyes a perfect copy of his mother's.

“We were so sorry to hear of his passing,” she whispers.

You nod and take a small sip of your bourbon. “Thank you. It’s… been hard on Jake. They were very close.” Jesus Christ, who the hell did Hosea have you impersonating? "Who's this handsome little man?"

Marcie's smile turns blinding as she brushes downy black hair off the baby's forehead. "This is Cassius. We named him after my daddy."

"A strong name," you offer for lack of anything better to say.

“So, where are you two from?” Alice asks. “Marcie and I are practically next-door neighbors!”

“Oh, Jake and I have a ranch out near Savannah that we call home but we’ve been staying at our house out here in Helena ever since his grandfather passed.”

Alice gasps and clutches Marcie’s hand. It’s not been five minutes and these two are already exhausting.

“We’re both born and bred Pennsylvanians! We’ve never been south, what’s it like?”

“Hot,” you snort into your glass and take another swig. “Hot and full of old coots that are still bellyachin’ about a war they lost over 30 years ago.”

The pair seem almost disappointed, faces visibly dropping to the point where you feel bad for crushing their curiosity.

"But…. it's nice, in some places. The mountains and foothills are some of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. Provided you can withstand the bugs, of course," you smile and wink at them. 

Cassius -again, what a fucking name- chooses that moment to stir with a hiccuping whimper and draw both women's attention, thankfully. Arthur seems fine, laughing it up and smoking cigars with Warren and whatever Marcie's husband's name is. 

"Oh! Oh, goodness, Cas!" 

You take another sip of your drink to hide your laugh when you see the baby has thrown up all over the shoulder and back of his mother's dress and appears quite pleased with himself. Marcie sighs and looks around tiredly before locking her sights on you. Shit.

"Geraldine, I know we only just met but could I ask you to hold Cas for a few minutes? Just while Alice helps me clean up?"

"Oh, I couldn't-" 

"Sure, Jerry loves babies," Arthur butts in and nudges your arm. "Give the little feller here."

Marcie smiles at Arthur and hands the baby over, thankfully puke free. Your hands lock around his pudgy middle, terrified of dropping him. Aren’t babies really fragile? He's heavier than he looks, cooing quietly and playing idly with the ruffles of your bodice. Once Alice and Marcie leave, you lean over stiffly to whisper to Arthur, keeping a neutral look on your face.

“I do know where you sleep and I will kill you there,” you hiss.

Arthur chuffs a laugh and wraps an arm around your shoulder. “I’d like to see you try. And for chrissake, it’s a baby, not a bomb. _Relax_ ,” he grits out before smiling at the baby and letting Cas grab his finger between two little chubby hands. "Hey, little guy."

“What d’you know about holdin’ babies?”

“Apparently a lot more than you.”

“So, Jacob, do you and the missus have any little ones?” It’s Marcie’s husband addressing you, the nameless brunette with shockingly hazel eyes. At your side, Arthur is speechless for once, mouth closed tight and throat working nervously.

“I’m afraid not yet, Mister…?” You swoop in with the save.

“Oh, forgive me. Richard Roman, Marcie’s husband.” Richard extends a hand and surprises you when, instead of a shake, he brushes your gloved hand with his lips.

“A pleasure,” you smile and withdraw your hand to loop back around Cas. You’d pressed him firmly up against your chest during the exchange and he was chewing on your ruffles now. “You have a fine son, Mister Roman. Jake and I hope to be blessed with children soon.”

Beneath the table, Arthur squeezes your leg tightly. _Laying it on too thick._

Richard beams widely, staring at his son fondly.

“Cas has been the joy of our lives. Marcie is an angel for having given me such a gift.”

“I hear you sweet-talking me when I’m not around.” Marcie appears suddenly behind Richard to plant a kiss on his cheek, dress damp but clean of baby puke. 

"I'll sweet talk you when you're around, too," Richard winks and pulls her down for a soft kiss. These two keep it up and you'll be cleaning up your own vomit.

"And there's my other handsome man!" Marcie and Alice take their seats, the former reaching for the baby. "Did you behave for Geraldine?"

“He sure did,” you smile and all but throw Cas back to his mother, beyond relieved to not be responsible for that tiny, breakable being anymore.

Alice and Marcie resume their chatter, alternating between telling you about Pennsylvania and asking about life in the south. 

About an hour after the train has departed, you stand and excuse yourself to the lady's room to begin sniffing around. Once the door closes into the next car, you let out a sigh and slump against the wall in the abandoned hallway paneled in expensive mahogany wood, and lined with plush red carpeting. The social charade of these types of jobs was always far more exhausting than any shootout, foot chase, or fight fist. Taking as deep a breath and stretching as much as the corset would allow, you stand straight and start poking around. The first car yields nothing except more diners and food, maybe some liquor if the guys want to bother with the glass bottles. The second is a much more promising, housing some high stakes poker and craps games with plenty of thick billfolds littering the heavy oak tables.

You’re attempting to jimmy open a door in the second to last car when the click of a hammer sounds by your ear, loud as the tolling of a bell. 

“Ma’am, I’m gonna have to ask you to step away from the door.”

You freeze, kneeling in front of the lock. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the dark green pants marking the train guards. The way you’re standing, you could probably slip your knife from its sheath and take the guy out silently. 

“Ma’am,” the man says again. “Stand up. Now.”

You decide to play it cool and see what happens, turning to stand slowly when you see your aggressor’s grinning face.

“God fucking dammit, John! I could’ve shot you!”

John snorts and rolls his eyes while holstering his pistol. “With what gun?”

“With the three I’ve got strapped under this ridiculous dress, dumbass!”

“Wait, really?”

“Yes, really,” you snap. “You been doin’ anything useful besides scarin’ the shit outta me?”

John beams, pleased with himself. “Follow me.”

He leads you to the last door of the car, stopping just outside of it.

“In there,” John nods. “There’s a small hallway and another door with two guards. The safe's behind it. Best I gathered, they have the keys and it takes two to open it. So either we get both of ‘em…”

“Or we blow it,” you finish. “So wait. You did all the legwork. I got shoved into this getup for nothing!”

“I wouldn’t say for nothin’,” he tries and fails to keep a straight face while leaning on the wall by your side, one bony hip cocked out. “Wanna cheat on your husband, Missus Whitmire?”

“I hate you, just as an aside.”

“Don’t be like that, darlin’. Or are you still hopin’ old Jake’ll _bless you with children?_ ” John’s scratchy voice hits a screeching falsetto at the last part and all the blood drains from your face.

“You did not hear that,” you groan.

“Oh but I _did_ ,” John says between wheezes of laughter. “Arthur saw me too and I thought I was gonna bust a gut.”

“I panicked and my mouth just ran on its own! Arthur gettin’ all choked up didn’t help.” 

He raises his hands in a calming gesture. “Happens to everybody but don't make it any less funny. Just - don’t rag on him too hard about clammin’ up, ok?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Why?”

“Because I asked you to.”

John, usually so blithe and callous, was making a gentle yet firm request for _Arthur_ , who was still furious at him over John’s year-long furlough. There’s a story here, one you doubt you’ll get the details of.

“Fine,” you sigh.

“Thank you. But you tell him any of this and I’ll dump horseshit in your boots.” John checks his pocket watch suddenly and stands a little straighter. “Now, uh, maybe you should -?” He points to the rear of the train.

“Shit!”

A handful of minutes later you’re rejoining Arthur at your table, hair smoothed back into place after giving the signal out the back of the wind-whipped platform. You smile at him as you sit and press a kiss to his temple.

“I’m so sorry, dear, I’m afraid I got a bit lost. I got twisted up at the poker tables and before I knew it I nearly fell off the rear of the train!” You titter lightly beneath Arthur’s belly laugh, catching the way his jaw tightens just slightly. He’s got the message.

“Well, you’ve always been a bit poor with directions, sweetheart. Remember that time you tried to visit your mother and ended up in the next state?”

Even the Matterson’s and Roman’s chuckle politely at that, so Arthur spends the next few minutes regaling them with an entirely on the spot tale. He’s always been a very good bullshitter, something you’ve never quite mastered. Probably a by-product of growing up under Hosea and Dutch’s tutelage.

Sighing, you take a large swig of your refilled bourbon and take in the passing scenery for the first time. It’s green as far as the eye can see, rolling hills of Douglas fir against rich, thick grass. Far off in the distance, the snow-capped Spanish Peaks blaze against the forests like a colorless beacon. Brown, featureless lumps that you can only assume are bison from this distance are grazing on the lush grass and drinking from the crystal clear creek that cuts through the land like a cracking geode, sparkling and brilliant. It's an absolutely breathtaking bit of country, somewhere you could really get good and lost in.

Arthur’s hand squeezing yours draws you back into the train car, to the fact that it’s gradually slowing down. At his pointed look, you nod lightly and squeeze him back. Now the real show begins.

“Richard, is the train stopping?” Marcie asks, painted lips twisted in a frown as she bounces baby Cas gently against her chest.

Richard snuffs out his cigar and stands, as do several other men in the car. “I do believe we are, dear.”

“I didn’t know we were making a stop,” you say breathily.

“There isn’t anything out here to be makin’ a stop at, Jerry,'' Arthur reminds you. “Perhaps the conductor is having some difficulties?” He says that last part just a bit louder and people seem to latch onto it, spreading it amongst themselves like wildfire.

Alice has moved closer to Marcie and you notice the two are holding hands, their pale fingers interlocked so tight their knuckles are white. With a final grinding screech and squeal of brakes, the train lurches to a halt. Whispers flow through the air like river water, hushed voices and bated breath.

“Maybe someone should go see if the conductor needs help?” Warren suggests.

Arthur smiles easily at him and leans back to sling an arm around your shoulder, drink in his other hand. “Do you know anything about trains, Mister Matterson?” At Warren’s hesitant head shake, Arthur raises his drink in a mock toast. “Neither do I! I figure, let them do what they need to do. In the meantime, I get free drinks and time with this gorgeous gal.” Just as he presses his lips to your cheek, three gunshots ring out in quick succession.

The screaming startles you more than the shots, tearing through the air and filling the car until your eardrums feel fit to bursting. The people in your car begin circling and pacing like herded sheep trapped against a cliff by a wolf. When the others at your table jump up you and Arthur do too, hands linked so you aren’t separated in the roiling mass of bodies. A tiny, quiet part of you notices that Cas is crying, big fat tears spilling down his face and nose snotting through confused sobs.

The locked door to the car wrenches inward with an almighty _bang_ and everyone drops to the floor as one. You peek from behind a table to see Micah, Bill, and Javier storming in, faces covered and guns held high in the air.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery! Nobody do anything stupid and we won’t do anything unkind!”

Bill comes forward as Javier and Micah flank him, pushing the straggler passengers back towards the herd. 

“Everyone back against the wall! And no funny business! We’re just here for donations.”

Arthur helps you to your feet and you begin moving, trying to lag behind to give them time to spot you. Across the car, Micah is brandishing his revolver at the terrified passengers, who flinch whenever the barrel passes over them.

A slim hand locks around your wrist and yanks, tearing you away from Arthur. You whip around to find him being held captive by Javier, a wicked-looking dagger pressed against his throat as they shuffle to the door. The trembling hand on your wrist belongs to Alice, green eyes wide with fear. She’s dragging you deep into the sea of passengers, next to her husband and the Romans.

“Why did you do that?” You spit at her and jerk your hand free. “They took Jake!”

Her eyes fill with tears and you’d almost feel a bit bad if she wasn’t messing with your plans.

“I’m so sorry, Geraldine! I thought he’d follow you,” she sniffles. “They said they wouldn’t hurt anybody!”

Blocking out Alice’s sobbing apologies, you pinch the bridge of your nose to soothe the headache you feel coming on. 

“We’ll get him back, Missus Whitmire.” A warm hand squeezes your upper arm. It’s Richard, clearly mistaking your irritation for distress. 

“Thank you, Mister Roman but there’s nothing we can do except wait until this is over.” The last thing you need is someone trying to play the hero.

Micah and Bill are slowly making the rounds, bags filling to bursting with money clips, earrings, brooches, and other expensive finery. Micah reaches your little group but doesn’t seem to notice you yet as he brandishes his gun at the Romans.

“C’mon, lady, y’know the drill by now. In the bag, everything you got.”

Marcie stands tall and juts her chin out at Micah, eyes turned steely like a thunderstorm.

“We aren’t giving you a damn thing, you filthy lowlife.”

Micah’s eyes take on that crazed spark, the one you learned quick means he’s about five seconds from losing his goddamn marbles.

“Real brave words when you’re holding something so… fragile,” he sneers before, to your horror, leveling his revolver to Cas’ little head and pulling back the hammer. Fuck, Micah’s the one you’d believe actually crazy enough to shoot a baby. 

There’s a blur of movement and suddenly Richard is in front of you, pressing an ornate looking Schofield revolver to Micah’s temple.

“Drop your weapon.” Richard’s hand is steady but his voice wavers slightly and Micah seems to latch onto that.

“You gonna shoot me, rich boy? You ever shot somethin’ that bled?” His eyes are manic by now and you can almost guarantee he’s smiling beneath his bandanna.

Bill’s clear across the car, back turned and oblivious to the situation. This has gotten _way_ out of hand. Slipping a hand into the slit of your dress, you grab one of your .38 Single Actions and dart forward to take hold of Richard and press your gun into the soft skin under his jaw.

“Give me the gun, Richard.”

“Geraldine!” Alice exclaims faintly.

“Missus Whitmire? What in god’s name are you doing?” Richard gasps.

Why can’t people ever just listen? This is why you hate playing dress-up. People are too unpredictable and stupid to control reliably with anything other than the business end of a pistol.

“Making sure you still have a child at the end of the day,” you snap at him. “Now you’re gonna turn around real slow and hand me that gun, got it?” He hesitates so you jam your own weapon into his neck a bit harder. “ _Got it?_ ”

Richard’s hand has begun to shake now but the gun slowly lowers as he turns to face you. His gaze is murderous, warm hazel eyes went flat and cold. “You’re with them.”

You snort and roll your eyes. “Oh, you think? Be glad I was here. Bell,” you call Micah, “I got this. Finish up.”

Micah thankfully lowers his gun and moves onto harassing Alice and Warren, who give up their valuables without a word. Richard has his revolver flipped over, barrel pointed back at him as he slowly raises it to you.

“Thank you,” you whisper to him, reaching for the gun. “We ain’t good people but no one here needed to die.”

That seems to enrage Richard and he moves faster than you can react. The butt of his gun slams against your temple with blinding force, hard enough to send you spinning. Everything is a blur of color and sound, shots ringing out from somewhere nearby. The ground tilts dangerously and then something else slams into your skull with enough force to turn the world black.

  
  


Waking up is excruciating and overall a bad idea. Pain radiates hotly down your neck and shoulders, originating from your temple and cheek. Opening your eyes is another bad idea. The sunlight leaking through your patchy tent canvas hurts like someone drove a railroad spike into your brain. Groaning, you try to at least roll over onto your side and find that a lot harder to do than it should be. Is the ground moving? 

“Hosea! Hosea, she’s awake!” That sounds like Jenny but you aren’t opening your eyes again to find out.

“Stop screamin’,” you whisper and even that seems to echo unpleasantly in your skull.

A cool cloth dabs gingerly at your throbbing forehead and you flinch away.

"Sorry, sorry," Jenny soothes. "Just trying to keep you cool."

"What happened?"

"You - you don't remember?"

Risking it, you peek open one eye to find Jenny biting her lip and staring at you in concern. The cloth feels nice now, at least.

"Maybe? Hell, I dunno." Sighing, you roll onto one side and curl inwards. Your head doesn't hurt any less but at least this position is a bit more comfortable.

With a rustle of canvas and a flash of sunlight brighter and more blinding than lightning, Hosea enters. The creases around his mouth smooth slightly when he sees you're awake.

"About damn time you woke up, kid. How do you feel?"

"Like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound sack," you grumble.

"Let's try and set you up. Do you know who I am?" Hosea grabs one arm while Jenny gets the other and props a hand behind your back. It's painful and slow going but you eventually manage it.

"A -mmm- pain in my ass named Hosea," you grit out through clenched teeth.

"Well, you ain't too bad off if you're still being a smart ass," he smiles while coming to crouch in front of you. "What's your name?"

"Eliz- Mags. Magpie." Jenny frowns at you but otherwise remains silent.

"Good. I'm gonna move your head around and it's gonna hurt."

And it does, every touch feeling like a hot poker against your skin. Your cheek hurts the most, so sensitive you'd swear it was cracked and broken if you didn't know better. Hosea prying your other eye open puts pressure on both your temple and cheek and a pitiful whimper slips out before you can stop it. Jenny lets out a tiny gasp before remembering herself.

"What? I can see, what's wrong?"

"Just some burst vessels, makes your eyes all red. It'll clear up in a few days." He's reassuring her as much as you. "Do you remember what happened?"

“I… don’t think so? Was there a train?” Remembering is even harder than it was last week when you were drunk. 

“Ain’t there always a train?” He says tiredly.

You sigh deeply again and move to lay down. Just sitting up for those few minutes was exhausting. "Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Should be fine,” Hosea says softly. “Maybe you’ll remember a bit more when you wa-”

But you’re already gone, falling into heavy, dreamless twilight.

The second time around is a bit better. Your head isn’t throbbing quite as badly and moving your neck or opening your eyes isn’t an ordeal. That might be because it’s dark outside, though. Jenny is gone, leaving you to roll shakily to your feet in privacy. Someone had taken your dress off while you were out and replaced it with your favorite jeans and raggedy blue button-up. Ducking out from your tent you emerge into the full darkness of late evening. Most of the men and a few of the girls are still loitering about so it can't be too late. Sighing, you stumble over to the stew pot and scrape the last remnants of supper into a bowl before collapsing at one of the empty tables. Chewing the food hurts but you're starving and each bite tastes as good as if it were made by someone that actually knew what they were doing.

"Hey!" It's Sean, sliding in across from you with a bright grin. "Welcome to the land o’ the livi- Mary, mother of Christ!” He yelps the last bit and crosses himself.

“What?” You snap at him, not in the mood for his dramatics or antics.

“Your eyes are redder than a damn rose! Makes you look like a proper devil, that.”

You sigh and rub your forehead, wincing when your fingers drag across the lump on it.

“Got a good bump too, eh? What happened anyway? The fellers was very hush-hush about it.”

Normally you could at the very least tolerate Sean’s company but he was starting to irritate the hell out of you.

“I don’t know, Sean, I can’t remember!” You snap and glare at him. “If they didn’t tell you-” Your sentence trails off as you look at Sean’s eyes, a light grey-blue in the light from the campfire. Blue eyes, why were those important?

_Arthur smiling as a tiny baby with bright blue eyes slobbers over his fingers. John snickering by your side in a plush hallway. The smack of a pistol butt against your temple. A flurry of gunfire and screaming before the darkness swallows you up._

“Earth to Mags, you gone deaf now?” Sean is hollering in your ear.

You ignore him and head to Dutch’s tent, heart thumping wildly. You hear hushed voices inside and duck in to find him, Hosea, and Micah talking softly, if animatedly. All three pause for a second, taken aback by your entrance. There are bandages peeking above the collar of Micah’s shirt.

“Miss Mags, it’s good to see you up and about,” Dutch recovers first and moves forward to offer you a seat but you refuse.

“What happened?”

Hosea frowns at you. “You still don’t remember?”

“I remember,” you assure him quickly. “I mean, what happened after that guy pistol-whipped me?”

Micah leans back in his seat, upper body stiff with pain. “Bastard tried to shoot me, just managed to graze my side and shoulder. You fell and hit your head on a table like a proper distressed damsel. Williamson had to carry you out.”

“And?” You ignore the jab.

“And what?” Micah grumbles. “I pumped him full of lead and we got outta there.”

In the back of your mind, you knew that Richard was dead but it hurt to have it confirmed. He couldn’t have expected it to end well. Guilt still bubbled like acid in the back of your throat though, picturing him staring at Marcie and his baby so adoringly not ten minutes before dying. 

“That fucking _idiot_ ,” you hiss more to yourself than the other three.

“Well, since you’re awake, could you fill in some gaps for us?” Dutch asks evenly.

“Gaps? Like what?”

“Like why you blew your cover,” Dutch says quietly as he stands and starts to pace. “Micah says he had it handled but you decided to blow not only your cover but Arthur’s as well!”

You’re more than a little taken aback; you hadn’t been expecting this and a disbelieving laugh burst out before you can stop it.

“First off, unless the locals are completely brain-dead, they’d have figured out Arthur and I weren’t innocent bystanders at some point! And _handled_? Is that what he told you?” You sneer at Micah. “Sure, he had it handled. Pointing a gun at an infant usually handles everything pretty well!”

There’s a half-second of shell shocked silence were Hosea and Dutch turn to Micah, the older of the pair looking downright murderous.

“Yeah, he left out that part, didn’t he?” You say sarcastically. “Richard didn’t pull that gun until you had his baby in your sights.”

Micah rolls his eyes at you. “Who’s Richard?”

“The man you killed, dumb ass!”

“Well, I wouldn’t’ve had to kill him if _you_ could manage to disarm a person without fucking it up!”

“I wouldn’t have had to if you-”

“Enough!” Dutch bellows, mustache puffing irritably. “That is enough. Hosea and I will discuss the matter later. Both of you, get out.”

“Boss, she -”

“Dutch, I didn’t -”

“Out!” 

You storm out of the tent, Micah hot on your heels. He’s saying something, no doubt spitting insults and curses at you but blood is pounding too loudly in your ears for you to hear him. A few voices call your name but you ignore those too, darting to the edge of camp and walking until the firelight has faded over a hill. You stop at a fallen oak and lean against the splintered stump, head spinning as the ache in your temple returns full force. Punching something sounds really good right now but you know it’ll just make your head hurt worse.

Sighing tiredly, you pace around the tree and fold in on yourself as the chill of the night makes itself known against your thin shirt. The moon is beautiful tonight, full and fat in the cloudless sky. Silvery light illuminates the forest around you in an almost otherworldly glow, soft enough to not hurt your eyes. For a while, you just exist, letting the anger and frustration and sorrow drain from you to be replaced by a bone deep tiredness. You’re considering sneaking back into camp and slipping into your tent when footsteps through the underbrush draw your attention.

“There you are!” It’s Javier, stepping around a tree with a worried look in his eyes. “It’s freezing out here, hermosa, what are you doing?”

You didn’t notice the numbness in your fingers until Javier is wrapping his sarape around your shoulders and tucking your hands into it. It’s still warm and giving off the pleasant scent of the cologne he sometimes uses. You shiver and burrow deeper into the warmth, now painfully aware of the frigid chill against your skin.

“I just needed to get away from Micah before I ripped his fucking face off,” you whisper bitterly. Javier laughs lightly and tucks the collar snugly around your neck. He’s standing close, closer than usual, and your stomach starts to churn uneasily again.

“How do you feel?” He asks softly, brushing a hand over your shoulder soothingly.

“Like someone tried to play the drums with my head but I think I’ll be ok,” you say lightly.

“Good.” Javier’s eyes shine in the moonlight, a small smile playing across his lips but eyes serious as they take in your undoubtedly frightening face and blood-red eyes. “You - you scared me, Mags.”

That wasn’t what you were expecting. “What? How?”

“When I took Arthur off the train, I stayed out there with him. Then I heard the shots. Hosea ran in to check on it, told me to stay there. Next thing I knew, Bill was carrying you out. You were limp and there was blood all down your face. I thought you were dead.”

Oh. You hadn’t even considered the interim of getting to camp, of someone having to haul your unconscious body back. You scoff, embarrassment rising hotly in your cheeks.

“Guess Micah was right. I really was a fuckin’ damsel in distress,” you lament.

Javier sneers and spits before taking another half step closer. You can feel the warmth radiating from him now, chests almost pressed together.

“Fuck that culo. He doesn’t know anything except how to sound like a jackass whenever he opens his mouth.” That gets a small laugh out of you and Javier smiles brightly before his face turns serious. “Urraca, I - I thought I wouldn’t -” he sighs and chews on his lip. It’s so rare for Javier to get tongue-tied.

“You thought what?” You ask quietly, though you have a sinking suspicion as to where this is headed.

Javier’s jaw works for a few seconds, mouth opening and closing as he gives you a strange look. Finally, he mutters something under his breath and ducks forward to press your lips together.

Javier is a good kisser, an _excellent_ kisser. The sweet tang of his cigars is intoxicating and sends your head spinning when his tongue slips into your mouth, lips soft and dry. He knew how to tilt his head to keep the perfect angle so you didn't have to break apart to breathe. His hands weren't idle either, one sweeping along your jaw and neck into your hair and the other cradling the small of your back to press his body against yours. It was inarguably the best kiss you'd ever had.

When you finally separate Javier's pupils are blown black and a soft flush is spreading across his cheeks. To your horror, frustrated tears begin to well up hot behind your eyes and you duck to avoid his gaze but he's already seen. A warm hand moves to cup your jaw and tilt your chin up.

"Hey, hey," Javier whispers, eyes wide and worried now; he's never seen you cry. "What's the matter? Am I that bad of a kisser?" The joke only makes your eyes burn more.

"I-," a shaky exhale to try and get your pounding heart under control. "I'm sorry. You're handsome and sweet and thoughtful and passionate but I don't….. I don’t feel the same way, Javier. And even if I did, the - the things I’ve done? You deserve better."

"Even when you reject me, you flatter me, amor," Javier's smile is bittersweet. "And I don't think that's true. We’re all outlaws, we’ve all done bad things." He's put a bit of space between your bodies but a hand still cups your face. 

"I'm sorry," you mutter, trying to avoid Javier's gaze but he's right there, all big soft brown eyes and warm fingers pressing against your unbruised cheek.

"Don't be," he whispers. "Don't ever apologize for how you feel, okay? I'd rather you be honest and reject me than live a lie. I want _you_ , in whatever way you'll have me." 

Wiping away the single tear that had managed to leak out, you finally manage to meet Javier's gaze.

"You're my brother, Javi. I would die for you without a second thought. But I don't- if this is too hard for you I can leave, I can-"

"Urraca." Javier interrupts with a whisper while drawing back to grip your hands in his. "No one's going anywhere. I'm not gonna lie, I'll need a little space but I don't want you to leave. We're family, no?" 

With every word he spoke, you became more and more furious with yourself for not being able to reciprocate his feelings. Even when he's the one being rejected he's trying to make you feel better. He's so great it's fucking infuriating. The smile you give him is small and wobbly, a ripple across the surface of a roiling sea below.

"You're somethin' else, you know that?" You say softly, still clinging to Javier's fingers. 

"It's been said," he teases lightly. His cracks are beginning to show though, the way his cheeky smile doesn't reach his eyes, the flatter tone of his voice, how his shoulders are hunching in. "I just need some space for a few days, okay?"

"Of course," you nod quickly. "Anything."

"Good night, Mags," he breathes, voice barely a whisper in the wind.

Javier gives your hands a final squeeze before dropping them, leaving you feeling cold. It doesn’t occur to you that you’re still wearing Javier’s sarape until he’s already disappeared into the trees, back towards camp. 

Bundling deeper into the borrowed clothes and sinking down at the foot of a nearby tree, you lose track of time. There wasn't one particular name for how you felt, except maybe 'shitty'. The throbbing in your head intensifies to pounding, making the tears well back up as you try to breathe through the pain and your swirling, jumbled thoughts. Did you just lose the best friend you'd ever had and he was simply being polite? No, no, surely not. Time, he said, he just needed some time. Ok, you could do that for him at least.

  
  


Like clockwork, Hosea rose with the sun and fixed himself a special pot of coffee that had some sweet-smelling herb mixed into the grounds. He was sitting at one of the tables when you walked back into camp, sipping his coffee and scanning through the local newspaper. He seemed almost surprised when you sat across from him, folding away his reading and offering you a clean cup, which you accepted gratefully. You'd opted to stay by your tree last night, too jumbled up and hurt and confused to deal with speaking to anyone or dodging questions.

"You're not typically an early riser," Hosea says quietly.

"Does it count if you never actually went to sleep?" You take a sip of coffee and then another, surprised at the taste. It’s strong and rich without being bitter. “What’s in this?”

“Ginger,” he says before taking his own sip. “And no, I suppose it doesn’t. How’s your head?”

“Fine.”

Hosea hums softly and takes another drink. For a few minutes, there’s just the gentle twittering of birds above you and Swanson’s heavy snoring by the edge of camp.

“So,” you try to ask casually. “What’s my punishment? Fifty lashes? Banishment? Exile?”

Snorting and rolling his eyes, Hosea sets down his mug and levels you with a hard stare. “Spare me the dramatics. Dutch is upset but no one’s being punished. You and Micah handled the situation as best you could. And you were right; locals were bound to make you and Arthur out at some point, I think Dutch was just planning to move us before then. So the pair of you will just have to stick close to camp until then, lay low.”

“Actually… I was wantin’ to talk to you about that,” you say hurriedly. Hosea frowns and urges you on with a wave of his hand. “I was wanting to - to head out for a bit. Go collect on some bounties, maybe visit some of my old contacts and get some leads. And maybe it’ll be good if my face is seen out of state, throw the scent off anyone tailin’ us.”

Hosea’s giving you that hard stare of his, the one that makes you swear he can read minds. He takes another sip of his coffee and covertly glances around to make sure everyone is still asleep.

“What’re you running from?” 

You flinch like he struck you, fingers knotting anxiously in Javier’s sarape. “Nothing.”

“You know, you’re not a very good liar,” Hosea says abruptly.

“Nobody’s a good liar compared to you. So what do you think? I was wantin’ to head out pretty soon, get started while the day was young.”

Draining his cup and leaning back into his chair, Hosea fixes you with that hard stare again. There’s silence for nearly a minute as he contemplates.

“Sure, you can go. On one condition,” he finally says.

You groan, already dreading his next words. “I wanna go alone, Hosea.”

“Shut up and listen. You can go if you’ll take some advice from an old man.”

“...ok?” You’re puzzled now, and curious.

“You need to let people in, kid,” Hosea says it softly, kindly. “I always see you run, quite literally sometimes, whenever someone tries to scratch the surface.” The square of cloth around your shoulders feels heavy as an anchor. “You decide how they’re gonna react before they even get a chance to know you. I know you talk with Arthur since he’s the one that found you. But it don’t have to be like that. Just… open up and let them make their own decisions, all right? That’s all I’m asking.”

You’re fidgeting uncomfortably with your cup now, twisting and tapping at the tin nervously. 

“Ok, sure,” you say quickly. “Can I go?”

Hosea sighs tiredly and picks his paper back up, waving you off. “Yes, yes, go. Just-”

“I’ll be careful, always am.”

Hosea’s doubtful grumble is out of earshot though as you’re already up and striding towards your tent to break it down with quick, practiced movements. Your meager belongings and bedroll are packed and lashed to Garnet’s saddle in under twenty minutes. Across the camp, Grimshaw and Pearson are just beginning to stir.

“You ready for a trip, honey?” You whisper to Garnet, smiling when she paws at the dry ground eagerly. It’ll be a good test for her, a trip like this. She’s proven to be a solid horse in the week you’ve had her, responding to commands intently. It’s been proven that the mare has a healthy disdain for men, always dancing out of their range and having already snapped at Sean twice. Course, the idiot didn’t know when to drop things, either.

Sighing, you go to mount up when the red and brown pattern of Javier’s sarape flashes in the corner of your eye. You strip it off quickly and trade it for your favorite leather jacket, scuffed and worn with age, before folding the length of fabric neatly and turning back into camp. Javier’s fast asleep beneath his little lean-to, face buried in his arms and golden spurs glinting brightly in the gathering sunlight. You tiptoe around the fire and place the sarape gingerly on a crate by Javier’s belongings and turn to leave when you find Uncle watching you intently, a bottle already in hand as he lounges by the fire in his union suit.

“That’s the strangest walk of shame I ever seen, and I’ve done a few in my day,” he sniggers behind his bottle. 

“Fuck off and mind your own business before I skin you like a rabbit, ya old coot,” you snap at him, praying no one else has woken up.

“Where you goin’?” He calls and stumbles to his feet to traipse after you. “You finally ditching this lot?”

You reach Garnet and check her girth one last time before swinging into the saddle.

“Not that it’s any of your business but I’m _working_. A foreign concept, I’m sure. Now, go away. I’m sure you’ll still be here when I get back, unfortunately.”

When Uncle tries to stumble a little closer, Garnet snorts unhappily and pins her ears back

“Fine, fine, see what I get for carin’!” Uncle pouts and slogs back to the fire, where a few more people have begun to wake and gather.

Clucking and giving Garnet a soft nudge, you steer her down the trail into camp and give Lenny a passing wave before breaking the tree line and heading down the main road. Once you’re a reasonable distance from camp, you give Garnet a firm kick and then the pair of you are off, flying down the road out west. Your neck and head still hurt like hell but the pull of the open road and some peace and quiet overrides any discomfort as you urge your horse into a full gallop. It feels like a weight is lifting as the miles slip past and you can’t contain your smile, laughing softly to yourself as you urge Garnet on, the full sun spilling over your shoulder to bathe the road ahead in golden light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP I never write angst so I can't tell if this was too much?? Not enough??? And I was getting kind of stuck so I figured the best way forward was through. I'm big excited about the next chapter though and all the delicious development coming. Thank you guys for sticking around!  
> Side note, for you corset curious, they should NOT hurt! I've worn a few and they didn't hurt, persay, but I also don't like tight clothes and it's uncomfortable AF  
> Questions, comments, concerns? Lemme know!  
> As always, find me on Tumblr at [starlightssam](https://starlightssam.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, comments, concerns? Things you guys would like to see that I'll see about trying to work in?
> 
> I love y'all!!!


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